At that second, inspiration hit her. Paolo! In his letter he had said that he was staying at a villa on Lake Como; he would be there all summer, until September; he was painting a series of frescos on the walls of a small private theatre in the villa, which was owned by a world-famous opera director who liked to try out future productions in his own theatre.
It was like a signpost blazing her path. That’s it, I’ll go to the Italian Lakes, she thought. They’re hundreds of miles north of Brindisi. Stephen isn’t likely to think of looking there—why should he? I’ve never told him how important Paolo is to me.
Dropping the envelopes into her handbag, she let herself out of the little flat on the ground floor of an old Victorian house. Her car was parked in what had once been the front garden; now, covered in asphalt, it served as a car park for the tenants of the flats into which the house had been divided.
It was five-thirty in the morning; London was grey and dim, with few cars around, and even fewer people. The street-lights glowed yellow as she headed south towards the river. She pulled up beside a red postbox which she saw on a corner, and posted all the letters except the one to Paolo. There was so little traffic that it only took her ten minutes after that to reach the apartment block facing Hyde Park with views of the cool green shade under the trees.
It had been one of Stephen’s most prestigious projects, built five years ago right in the heart of London’s most expensive and fashionable area, with marvellous views. Even a small flat there cost the earth.
Stephen had moved into the penthouse apartment as soon as the building had been completed; he had always meant to live there, he had told her. He had worked on the specifications of the penthouse with the architect with his own tastes in mind, and had chosen the décor, creating a perfect home for himself.
Beyond his long, beautifully furnished lounge lay a broad terrace garden; it even had small trees growing in pots, and shrubs and flowers which breathed fragrance at night. She had loved walking out there at night, watching London far below, the sound of it muted, unreal.
Being so close to the park was wonderful too, almost giving one the feeling of being in the country. On hot days you could get cool in the shade of the trees, have a picnic, or row on the Serpentine. Stephen rode in Hyde Park at weekends, on a big black Arab horse which he kept in stables near by, and in the early mornings he jogged in a tracksuit to keep fit, following the twisting paths under the trees for half an hour.
It was lighter when she parked outside the apartment block, knowing that there were unlikely to be police around at that hour. It was the work of a minute to run across the pavement and drop her letter into the chrome letter-box on the front of the locked bullet-proof glass doors of the block.
The porter seated behind his desk looked up, recognised her, looked startled, but immediately gave a polite smile, and stretched his hand out ready to press the button that would open the doors electronically, if she wished, but she shook her head and turned away.
Behind her she sensed him walking towards the doors to collect the letter she had delivered.
Please don’t take it up at once! she thought, her heart going like a steam-hammer.
He wouldn’t, though, surely? Not at this hour! He would keep it and take it up with the rest of Stephen’s mail.
Although it was cool she was sweating as she got back into her car. She slammed the door, put on her seatbelt, and then risked a glance upwards to the soaring top of the forty-storey block, to where the penthouse rose against the early morning sky.
She had expected the high, wide windows to be dark too, but they blazed with light. Shock hit her. Stephen must be awake. Couldn’t he sleep either? It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be nervous too; might have doubts or uncertainties.
A shadow moved at one of the windows and her throat closed in fear. Was that him? Or was she imagining it? It was so far up that she couldn’t be sure. Was he looking out? Looking down? What if he saw her? What if he had spotted the car? Was he watching her, wondering what she was doing out there, and if she was coming up? Would he come down to find out if she had left a message?
Her hands shaking, she started her engine and stepped on the accelerator, shooting away as if the devil himself were after her.
She drove far too fast in sheer panic but there were no police cars around to notice her. She shot through comparatively empty streets down to the softly moving Thames with its glittering reflections of light from the embankment and the high-rise office blocks on each bank. A few moments later she was across Westminster Bridge, and driving into the southern suburbs, unnaturally quiet at this hour, the normally crowded roads almost empty, just the odd car passing her, and a bus lumbering into the city with a few sleepy passengers, workmen on their way home after a night shift.
I won’t ring Paolo from England, I’ll make for Lake Como, she thought. I’ll book into a hotel, and only then get in touch; that will be safest.
She had written to tell him that she was getting married and to invite him to the wedding but he had written back to say he was sorry but he couldn’t make it. He had hoped that she would be happy, and he had sent her an exquisite piece of Venetian glass—a candelabra, frosty and twisting, a centrepiece for a dinner-table, he’d said. She had only received it yesterday and she hadn’t yet told Stephen about it.
She didn’t remember mentioning Paolo to him at all, but his name had been on the list of wedding invitations under his home address in Rome. Stephen probably wouldn’t have noticed it, except to assume that he was one of her Italian relatives, and in a sense that was close in the truth. Paolo meant more to her than any of them ever had, anyway.
She arrived at Dover with half an hour to wait before she could board the ferry, and she had had time to think while she drove. So when she bought her ticket she managed to get some loose change, went to a phone box in the ferry terminal, and rang Lara.
The ringing went on for a long time before a sleepy voice finally came on the line, growling, ‘Who…?’
‘Lara, it’s me, Gabriella,’ she began, and Lara gave an outraged squawk.
‘You’re kidding! Gabi, what the hell do you mean by ringing me at…? Where’s that damned clock…? Good grief, it’s only seven-thirty! Do you know what time I went to bed? Five minutes ago! Tommy’s new tooth decided to come through last night; he cried and yelled until he was tomato-red and I was as limp as lettuce. He only went to sleep as it began to get light, the little monster. So, whatever the crisis, you’ll have to cope with it without me. I need some sleep before I even think about getting ready.’
Before she could hang up Gabriella said huskily, ‘I’m not getting married today, Lara.’
A silence. ‘What?’
Gabriella talked fast to stop her from interrupting. ‘I’m going away. I’ve written to Stephen. I’m sorry, I can’t explain—I have to go, but will you tell the others? Say I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but I just can’t go through with it.’
She ran out of words then and hung up, but not before hearing her cousin burst out, ‘Where are you going? What…?’
Gabriella stared at her face reflected in the perspex hood over the phone. With her black hair pulled back off her forehead and no make-up on her face, she looked even younger, her eyes a turmoil of feelings that she had kept shut down for years and was still terrified of confronting.
I must cut my hair! she thought. It is far too long. I’ll have it cut short as soon as I get to France.
She bought a cup of hot black coffee from a stall and drank it in her car, staring at the waiting lines of cars ahead of her. They finally began to move and she followed them up into the ferry, parked as commanded by the seaman in charge and went up into the ship.
She couldn’t have eaten to save her life. She